Author's Notes: Sorry it's been so long! Advanced classes and homework and band and choir and private lessons have stolen away most of my computer time. If this chapter seems weak, it's because I am. Yay sleep deprivation! I snuck in a reference to band, since it's one of the main things eating my time. Gotta love band, though. The sonnet song is something I wrote when I was learning about iambic pentameter in Advanced American Literature. It helped me remember that blasted meter, even if I don't like some of the rhymes I used. I also included several allusions to the musical Camelot, which I saw a few weeks ago. I was a bit disappointed that they cut the best verses of "Fie on Goodness," but their Mordred was so great it didn't really matter. His outfit, ironically, was green and silver. The guy who played Merlin (who also played Pellinore) was brilliant.

A thousand thanks to my beloved readers, old and new. And a huge MEEP! to She's a Star for actually mentioning this fic, and so nicely. I mean--GAH! I nearly hyperventilated. I was writhing in my computer chair thinking "I am not worthy of such praise!"

And this chapter certainly isn't worthy. I suppose I had to have boring transition somewhere. Seriously. Nothing really happens here, except I fit in as much foreshadowing as possible before swearing it off...for now. Here you go, and don't be too disappointed!

Night:

As the flower I cannot seem to escape opened in the darkness, I performed a series of tests upon it to see what enchantment gave it its eerie power.

I found only one spell: the one that makes it bloom.

How can this be?

Surely the flower did not cause me to behave so oddly on its own? Nimue must have removed all her charms before returning it, the crafty woman.

Yet my eyes are drawn to it more frequently than before.

The white petals are pointed, growing in layers of five. It so resembles a star...

Or a planet.

Venus is still bright in the night sky.

You think I failed to notice, didn't you?

(Yes, I have at least resigned myself to the fact that I carry on unhealthy conversations with the flattened and prepared remains of a tree. But I have reason—I am eccentric, after all. I'll no longer fret about trying to get this wretched parchment to reply.)

You really believe I did not see it? It's quite obvious: Nimue will be the end of me.

How could you think that this could escape me—me, Merlin, the greatest wizard of our time?

(Archimedes pretended to fall asleep after I came in, and now he must continue the charade and is so denied any eye-rolling or amused hooting).

After a time with Nimue, I shall lose all my powers, this I know.

The Lady told me. Pollux told me. The stars themselves tell me. Nimue will bring me great joy but great ruin. I have known this since I first met her. I'll know it when I last see her.

I have seen it, in part. Living my life nearly backwards has granted me many glimpses of the future—my past. I know that the Lady's prophecy is true: Arthur will become a great king in a time of peace. I know that I will not see Arthur wed, which suits me fine, as I still don't think his queen will be worthy of him. I know that Arthur and I will be betrayed.

It is difficult to explain how one goes about living in reverse. You can see here that I do not literally live backwards. But I spend so much time looking to the future through different magical means that often it's as though I've lived there already. I have adopted many quotes, sayings, and philosophies from people that will not exist for centuries.

I suppose this adds to my eccentricity. Deacon once accused me of senility, and I responded, "It can't be senility...I've outgrown that."

Tomorrow, I shall look back at what is to come again, perhaps with the Lady's aid, to learn more of the more foreboding elements of Camelot's future.

Following Morning:

I really do think musicians are more insane than I am. Who in their right minds would put themselves through such torture?

I arrived at the Lake and found I was not the only visitor today. Elwin and Riordan were there, sitting with the Lady as I do so often at the lakeside. Ever-amiable Elwin rose to greet me, but Riordan did not stand. His injuries are not what ailed him (I healed him myself), so it must have been strife of the heart. After returning Elwin's warmth and mentally reminding myself to get on with that robe business, I addressed the bard.

"Surely not all the music has fled your soul?" I asked, smiling.

Riordan sighed. "No, I cannot escape it—I was born a musician. What I lack is the will to sing or play."

I would fix that.

"Which do you find easier?" I asked.

"Playing," he frowned. "But why--?"

I produced a lyre. "I'll not have your skills wane. Practice something, at least. I'll gladly listen to all your exercises."

"Really?" the left corner of his mouth twitched upward as he took the instrument. "I usually practice for two hours each day."

"T—two hours?" I spluttered. I barely spend a few minutes rehearsing spells every week. And I consider myself dedicated! ...in a way.

Elwin nodded knowingly. "I tried to learn the flute as a boy, but I hadn't the patience or the dedication."

"...two hours?" I blinked.

"Sometimes longer, when I was first learning," Riordan added, plucking a string for tuning purposes. "I only need two hours now to maintain my skill."

I stared. "Two hours...and you play the whole time?"

"When I'm not singing. I have to work harder when I do both at once."

Riordan wore a grin as he strummed a simple melody on the lyre, moving his foot to the beat. I don't even know where to put my fingers on a lyre, and he can play it, sing, and walk around all at once. He once told me that he cannot even walk normally—he has to stride heel to toe, else he jars his instrument. So he must concentrate on playing skillfully, singing well, walking properly, AND he has every piece of music memorized! I'd have to have a score, at least.

Ah, but they haven't invented scores yet, have they? Still waiting on those monks...

The Lady watched us with a benign smile. She never does more than smile. In all my years knowing her, she has not once laughed aloud at my wit. Or even at my blunders. Archimedes should show her how to properly appreciate these opportunities.

"Are you still worried about the future, Merlin?" she asked at last.

"Of course," I sighed. "I have seen parts of it, and from what I can tell, it is not a perfect time."

"No time is perfect. Not even the ancient civilizations you idolize."

I sulked. "Athens was so very close to perfection..."

"Now you are looking to the past," the Lady observed.

"Because you turned my eyes there!"

She sighed. "Do not ask me of the future again, Merlin. Knowing too much will lead you to disrupt it."

"What if it needs disrupting?"

"It must be as it will be."

"Merlin," Elwin interrupted, disliking our tense dialogue. "Have you spoken with the centaurs of late?"

I gave the Lady one more disdainful glance before following the conversation where Elwin had led it.

"Yes, actually, though Pollux did not wish to speak at length of the war. He lost his brother to humans."

Elwin looked as though his own brother had died. "How horrible! A blow to the whole herd and to us. Castor was a noble—"

"Pollux prophesied ill fortune for me," I said loudly.

Riordan looked up, disliking my disdain as much as Elwin. He changed his song to a difficult tune, so brilliantly executed it was impossible to ignore. I went from indignant to awed in moments, wondering how his thoughts could keep up with his fingers. The strings threatened to vibrate out of place, yet the sound was soft accompaniment.

He came in next with a sonnet turned song, a slow and lovely contrast to the rippling phrase underneath.

"Though distant from mine eye, thou art yet near.
In heart, in thought, in spirit dost thou dwell
Though ne'er before me shalt my love appear
For I am banished from her homeland fell.
Though callous distance parts thee from my sight,
Though time will spread the void a hundredfold,
Though absence urges mem'ry to take flight,
Onto my boundless love for thee I'll hold.
Though stolen from my side, thou liv'st with me
Thy image fix-ed in my loving eye.
Until the day I am again with thee,
I'll see thee in my thoughts and dreams till when
At last we meet again, my love, in hea'en."

I was certain music that complex couldn't possibly come from an instrument that simple. I suspect a hint of magic went into that performance. The song, I fear, was about his lost love. At least he is channelling his grief creatively. Riordan finished and flexed his fingers without a trace of fatigue.

"It appears my skills have not waned after all," he said lightly.

"A fine performance," the Lady said quietly. "But perhaps it is best Merlin and I speak."

Riordan nodded and the Lady led me off a ways where the others could not hear. I became apologetic, feeling like a stubborn child being humored, but she said nothing of my behavior. She merely watched me, her large seer's eyes trained on mine.

"Vivian," I implored. "I must know all I can to help Arthur. I want to warn him, to council him, to comfort him after I am gone."

Some might have called the Lady by her first name out of disrespect, but she knew I asked her as a friend. She stared at me for a long unblinking moment during which I'm quite certain I neglected to breathe. At last she sighed in acquiescence. I couldn't help but brighten as I inhaled again.

"Thank you! I'll fetch my—"

She shook her head. "Your foretelling tools will not be necessary. Just look into my mind."

I blinked in surprise. The Lady Vivian is one of only two people who can close their minds to me—the other, of course, being Nimue. I can understand the Lady's caution. She has Seen things I should not. Nimue, however...

I accepted the Lady's invitation with what I hope was humble thanks. Because she had ushered me in, the visions began immediately. First, I saw that which I had already seen on my own: Camelot, the Round Table, a crowned Arthur sitting on his throne, people Maying in peaceful jubilation, knights fingering their swords longingly, Arthur sitting forlornly outside a war tent.

Then began strange and new visions. An impossibly handsome man in polished armor sat high upon his horse in all senses of the phrase. "C'est moi—Lancelot du Lac," he declared with unnecessary formality. I next saw him jousting...winning...but aiding the wounded afterward. I saw him speaking with Arthur, sitting on his right at the Round Table. I briefly saw him standing with a stunning crowned woman. I wanted to see more, as she was certainly Arthur's queen, but that vision ended abruptly. The Lady did not wish me to see further.

I saw Morgan le Fay, her dark eyes calculating. She smiled, and her eyes turned blue, her hair blonde, and her appearance fair and beguiling.

I saw tournaments, knights assembled in discussion, the beginnings of civilized courts.

I saw what I had suspected since my first vision: my absence in all these. As if reciprocating my mind reading, the Lady allowed me a glimpse of myself walking hesitantly from my beloved woods, following Nimue.

The next vision came more suddenly than the others. I saw a young man with dark hair wearing a malevolent smirk. He reclined irreverently in Arthur's throne, laughing to himself—a mirthless, chilling laugh.

A voice came to me, familiar, yet I could not name the speaker: "Those who are wicked cannot be truly happy. They may be triumphant, yes, but never happy."

The young man seemed to disagree. He threw back his head and laughed again, accompanied by raucous cheers. His sword glinted hungrily at his side.

Something clawed urgently at my mind, tugging me away from the sinister youth.

Yet before I returned to the present, I saw his eyes. They seized my heart and plunged it into freezing waters. He had Arthur's eyes. But they were not Arthur's eyes. Where wisdom should have dwelt there was only shrewd cunning, where a sense of humour would twinkle there glimmered dry cynicism, where kind determination shone there blazed a power lust. These eyes were hardened, obdurate versions of the King's.

I let out a cry of shock as I saw the present again. I saw the Lake, my friends a ways down its shore, and the Lady looking at me worriedly. I searched her face for answers, as her mind no longer provided them.

"Who was that?" I asked.

The Lady sighed. "I did not intend you to see so much of him. I merely wanted you to recognize the threat he poses that you might warn Arthur if you so wish. He—my visions of him are somehow difficult to contain."

"And he—" I faltered. "He will bring about Camelot's downfall?"

"Not he alone, but yes. Anger loves a leader."

The Lady sighed, more drained than I. She must have taken the mental fatigue upon herself. I gently led her back to her seat at the edge of the waters. She stared out over the reflective surface, still looking at something I could not see.

"Do not ask me of Camelot's future again." She said.

It sounded like a request, almost a plea, but I knew it was an order.

"No," I murmured, glad to follow it. "I'll not ask again."

I sank onto a rock, feeling old. I don't like to feel old. I have always felt younger the older I've grown, priding myself that my beard is the only confirmation of my age. Yet I sat there—slumped there, feeling every season upon me. I understood suddenly why so many aged people stand with such poor posture; the weight of one's years bends the spine.

"Merlin?"

I glanced up. Riordan was gazing at me with either wonder or intense confusion.

"You were unmoving," he said. "And I—I could have sworn you'd become part of that rock."

I smirked beneath my beard. "I do hope I have not become that gray."

Elwin rushed to reassure me. "Oh, no! Your eyes still shone more brightly than any stone. I suppose they gleam yet when you sleep, and would give off new starlight did you not close your lids."

I laughed at that and Riordan laughed too. The Lady granted us another distant smile, but her thoughts were not among our company. I spoke for a while with my friends of all those things friends must speak of and departed. The others took my cue and left soon after. We turned and waved back to the Lady, who stood as if to wave back but merely placed her hand on the rock I had been sitting on. Riordan and Elwin dismissed it as her usual dreaminess and took their leave. I frowned, a tugging sensation jarring my brain like a poorly handled instrument.

That laughing man was perhaps the most disturbing vision I have ever had, but as the Lady Vivian said, "It must be as it will be."

Midday:

I returned to my cottage expecting to have an uneventful afternoon, but someone had planned otherwise.

Nimue was trying to persuade a recalcitrant Archimedes to hold a message for her. He sat stubbornly on the windowsill while she leaned gracefully over the shrub growing beneath it. She held out to him a piece of parchment graced with her neat, flowing script and he fluffed his plumage haughtily, turning his tail on her. Nimue pursued him, nudging his wing with the corner of the parchment, but he continued to act most contrary. Nimue made a face of mixed frustration, urgency, and amusement.

"Come now," she was saying. "Can you not hold this note until his return? I am not asking you to deliver it. Merely keep it beneath your talons and make sure he sees it!"

Archimedes fanned his tailfeathers cheekily.

Nimue sighed. "Can you at least tell me when he'll be back?"

Archimedes shrugged innocently. Both Nimue and I recognized the deviousness of this gesture.

"Don't play dumb with me," she snorted. "I know you to be the wisest owl in these parts. You understand me perfectly and you are more than capable of relaying a simple message."

Archimedes ignored her, immune to her appeals to his pride. But Nimue is just as stubborn as he. She merely changed her tactic.

"Of course, I could be overestimating you merely because you belong to such a sage wizard. Perhaps I am projecting his intelligence onto you. Wishful thinking, I suppose. You really aren't the wisest owl in the land, anyway. My owl Camilla can take messages too, and she is very agreeable."

Archimedes turned and blinked dubiously at her. He stared for a long time, even by owl standards, and at last extended his leg. I approached applauding and both parties whirled to gaze guiltily at me.

"You got Archimedes to agree to something," I chuckled. "That is quite an accomplishment. A feat many brave wizards have failed at. Unfortunately, a message is now unneeded, as I've returned."

Archimedes snapped his leg back into place. He glared at me as though daring me to say it hadn't been there all along. Nimue gave me a much warmer greeting.

"I'm glad you turned up," she smiled. "I had hoped to speak with you in person. The message had been my—"

Archimedes hooted loudly and flew back inside, knocking over my newly constructed globe in the process. Nimue blinked after him, letting the rest of her sentence die. I resolved to actually turn Archimedes into a newt this time.

Truly.

I've said it before, but I mean it.

I haven't gotten around to it yet, but I will.

Documenting my life comes first, you know. Now I really must continue...

So Nimue tucked the unneeded message away and told me that she wanted to know when our lessons would actually begin. Her eagerness both pleased and startled me. I told her she could return tomorrow, but she seemed disappointed that it couldn't be sooner. I explained that I had important projects to complete, mumbling apologetically about Arthur's lessons, Riordan's wand, and Elwin's robes. Nimue looked as dejected as she could without resorting to pouting. She said she understood. I do not doubt this, but understanding something doesn't mean you like it.

"I shall see you tomorrow, then," she sighed.

It was the kind of sigh that makes you mourn for the desolate one that uttered it and swear vengeance on whatever caused them such grief. I suddenly wanted to break all my engagements and silence that sigh, but my senses returned and I nodded.

"I look forward to it," I replied, attempting vainly to lift her spirits.

She probably wasn't nearly as upset as she appeared, but the way she was acting demanded sympathy. I often feel both disgust and admiration for her manipulative skill. She granted me a small smile and waved a bit as she went, probably an invitation for me to run after her, swearing to change my plans just for her.

Well, I am sorry Nimue, but last I checked my life did not revolve around you.

...now my globe can't revolve, either. Stupid owl. Really must turn him into a newt.

A Short While Later:

In rummaging around my desk looking for tools to repair my globe, I have come across some stray pages of my journal from several days ago. I checked them and discovered that the annals of my life do seem to focus quite a lot on Nimue.

Not a very accurate account.

Really, my life does not revolve around her.

The very idea is ridiculous, preposterous, far-fetched, and...for lack of further adjectives, silly.

On the subject of adjectives, while I was reading some of my previous records I discovered some horrifying errors. Among other things, I absently wrote "weather" instead of "whether," and misspelled "eunuch." How embarrassing! Fortunately, most rules of spelling and grammar will not be established for centuries.

However, if I ever use of the wrong form of "it's/its," you have permission to give me the severest of paper cuts.

Afternoon:

Arthur has made tremendous strides in his studies. Our last lesson seems to have given him a voracious appetite for learning.

About time.

I admit I was taken a bit off guard. He covered several days' worth of lessons in a few hours. I knew when he really put his mind and a lot of effort into it, he'd—but really! I hadn't planned on it being today. I suppose I should have had more faith in the boy in this regard, but he usually sleeps through all my lectures.

His enthusiasm is on an eerie parallel with Nimue's. However, I doubt lessons with Nimue will be nearly as productive. She spends too much time...socializing. She's easily distracting. Distracted. Yes, that's what I meant to write.

BLAST! I said only give me paper cuts when I make a grammatical mistake, not a—

Curious. I've bloodied one of the loose pages from earlier. It's the record of this morning's vision.

Surely not everything that happens to me is an evil omen? Dreams are enough. I kept glancing nervously at Arthur today as though expecting...

I must stop dwelling on all these depressing prophecies.

Evening:

I do not understand how that woman thinks.

She must not do it very often.

You'll recall I wasn't thinking very highly of Nimue after she left just short of whining this morning? I was under the impression that she wasn't too pleased with me for postponing our lesson. I imagined she would go home and brood and sigh until someone came along to feel sorry for her. I felt not a jot of pity for her.

But you know what she actually did? Instead of going home and pouting, she spent what were surely many tiring hours weaving a robe for Elwin because I'd mentioned it. Her owl Camilla just brought it by. It is a splendid thing, soft black lined in gold. Though handsome, it is not too extravagant for my humble friend. The note tied neatly atop the folds of fine fabric said that Nimue was sorry for her childish behavior today, but she "had been looking forward to our lesson together as a child looks forward to a holiday."

That gesture can only be described as thoughtful. She couldn't have put all that effort in merely to redeem herself. Her message actually requested I not tell Elwin who made the robes.

From a whining wench to an anonymous saint in a day.

I don't know what to make of her.

Archimedes knows exactly what he thinks of Nimue's gift and was not afraid to let me know. He retched loudly, bugging his large eyes, and coughed up a mess of fur and bones onto the new robe. I rose with every intention of following through on the newt threat, but the robe glowed gold and was clean. I raised a brow, impressed with Nimue's skill at a magical loom.

Camilla hooted with a sort of dignified triumph. Archimedes turned to glare at her, but she fluffed her feathers and blinked demurely at him. Camilla is a motley sort of owl, mostly cream in colour dappled with shades of brown. There's a streak of mahogany on her head that I think makes her look like a chicken, but Archimedes failed to draw upon this similarity for his retort.

Actually, he failed to come up with any kind of retort. He stared at her even longer than he had started at Nimue. Camilla tilted her head at him, curious, looking all the more like a chicken in my eyes. She seemed to shrug and flew off. Archimedes must have found the pose attractive, though, for he tore from his trance and took off after her.

Thank goodness I never react that way to—

How can I still hear him laughing when he's outside?! Hypocrite.